


if you let me (i'll take care of you)

by callabang



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Intimacy, M/M, Multi, Philadelphia Flyers, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callabang/pseuds/callabang
Summary: Claude is quiet for a very long time. Then he says, just softly into her hair, “I don’t even know if he… if he thinks about me like that.”Ryanne doesn’t know Danny like she knows Claude — like she knows Claude in love. But she thinks of the photo, of Danny’s soft smile and dark eyes, and she thinks Claude doesn’t have much to worry about.





	if you let me (i'll take care of you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remiges](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 Poly Hockey Exchange. Remi, I am honored to follow in your footsteps as the second person to every write for this pairing. I hope I did them justice.
> 
> The tweet and photo discussed in this fic can be found [here](https://twitter.com/NHLFlyers/status/982084925527658496).
> 
> Title from Drake's Take Care, but specifically from this absolutely transcendent [cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9GQJgbGZJU) by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> I did way more work than I normally do to make sure the timeline of this fic was semi-coherent, and then I realized there's literally no reason for Danny to be in Ottawa in the summer of 2018. Ah, well.

It’s April, and something has been bothering Claude.

Ryanne can’t quite puzzle out what it is. It could be hockey, obviously; playoffs are a couple weeks out, and the pressure is mounting, but she doesn’t think it’s that. Hockey is something he can talk out with Wayne, work out on the ice, and he doesn’t normally bring it home. Not the way he’s bringing this home.

So it’s something else.

It’s been almost a week since Ryanne noticed, and it’s so hard to quantify she doesn’t even know if she should bring it up. It’s not like Claude is even really acting differently. They walk the dogs together like always, and he makes her tea every night, and yesterday while she was getting ready for bed he perched her up on the bathroom counter and ate her out until she was so sensitive she had to pull him off of her by the scruff of the neck. It’s the kind of tender, thoughtless intimacy you get used to when you’ve loved someone for five years, except for the way she sometimes catches him staring worriedly at the middle distance, his thin, handsome face drawn.

It’s April, and she’s thinking about what might be going on with Claude while idly catching up on her social media, and she sees the tweet. It’s from the previous week, and at first she really just glances over it. Claude is always doing promo stuff for the Flyers — part of the whole captain deal — and sometimes they’re fun, but it’s not like she really devotes that much attention to it.

It’s only later, after Claude comes home from practice, after they’ve eaten dinner and played a game of Scrabble and he’s fucked her with slow intensity, hands hot on the thin skin of her ribs, that she considers it in any sort of depth. Claude is a sturdy line behind her in bed, arm tucked close around her waist. _Huh_ , she thinks to herself, in the last minutes before she drifts off. _I wonder why he didn’t mention Danny._

 …

So then there’s three things to think about — Claude, and the thing that’s bothering him, and the tweet. Ryanne can’t even say for sure why those things are linked in her head. The timing maybe, or the fact of Claude’s silence or maybe — probably, even  **—** the photo itself.

She looks at it again the next morning while she’s eating her granola: Danny in his dark suit, hair cropped short and neat against the white cinderblock of the practice rink as Claude leans up beside him. The smooth line of Claude’s arm, the soft fondness in his eyes, the angle of Danny’s head where it’s tilted back against the stone.

Ryanne isn’t — she’s not paranoid, is the thing. But there’s something in her chest that she’s not entirely sure how to deal with just yet. She tables it for the time being; she goes to the gym, she goes for coffee with Chelsea, she looks online for new towels for the bathroom. She ruined hers with mascara stains, and when she was gathering up the linens for the laundry service yesterday she was pretty sure that Claude had used his to mop up Harvey after he got into the flower beds.

She goes about her day, and all the while she nurses the image of them in her head when she has a few minutes of quiet.

Ryanne knows about Danny, of course; she’s even met him in person a few times, at various team events. She met Claude in Ottawa just before the Flyers bought Danny out — Claude’s scrawny now, but he was scrawnier back then, and he wore his hair long enough to curl out under the bottom of his snapbacks. He regularly drank flat beer out of plastic cups, but even then he had an earnestness about him, a gentle warmth. _You domesticated him,_ his sister had said to her a few months into their relationship, and it had some truth to it. But Claude had wanted to be domesticated.

Ryanne vaguely remembers hearing him talk about the buyout. She knows he and Danny lived together when Claude was a rookie, and played together in Germany during the lockout. She knows they were close while they were teammates. The mentions tapered off when Danny left, though, and disappeared entirely when he retired. As far as she knows, Claude’s relationship with him fizzled with the lack of proximity. As far as she knows, they don’t even text.

But then she thinks about the photo, and she wonders — all that might be true. But it might not be all.

 ...

Eventually, her curiosity — and that’s what it is, that feeling in her chest, curiosity and worry and love — gets the best of her and she asks Claude outright. It’s after the Flyers get knocked out of the playoffs and they’re in the middle of the long drive back to Ottawa. The sun is a warm light on the horizon, and they’ve lapsed into easy silence. Ryanne is in the passenger seat, watching the way the road stretches endlessly ahead of them, the way the trees whip past outside. Occasionally, she glances over at Claude, and she recognizes the lines of tension in his body, his narrow expression, and abruptly her heart is so full of love for him that she can’t help but ask, if only so he can stop worrying.

“Claude?” she asks, shifting in her seat so she can watch his face.

“Yeah, babe,” he answers, not like a question, just an acknowledgment. A way to show he’s listening.

“You never mention Danny.”

Ryanne isn’t sure what she’d been expecting, exactly. Maybe a confirmation, one way or another — that Danny is the thing that’s been bothering Claude, or that he isn’t. And it’s certainly not like Claude swerves off the road, or anything dramatic. But she knows Claude, and she notices the subtle things — the slight intake of breath, the way his knuckles go tight on the steering wheel — and she knows it isn’t nothing.

“Why would I mention Danny?” he asks, faux-casual and keeping his eyes fixed on the road. The setting sun casts a warm glow across his face, illuminates the burnished gold strands of his hair. They’ve made this trip dozens of times, and she’s spent more than a few just soaking up the way he looks in the soft evening light. Handsome, the way he’s always been handsome, but also familiar, intimate, in that particular way of intimacy that comes when you’ve been with someone for a long time and you know how to share space and quiet on a long drive.

“I don’t know,” Ryanne answers, “I just wondered why you don’t see him anymore. It seemed like you two were pretty close.”

“I don’t know,” Claude echoes, giving an aborted shrug. “Once he left the team we didn’t really keep in touch, I guess.”

So Ryanne was right about that. Claude wouldn’t lie to her, and anyway they’re on each other’s phones all the time, for one reason or another — ordering takeout, arguing over a crossword answer — and she thinks she would have seen Danny’s name crop up if they were still in contact.

“That’s a shame,” she says. “You looked pretty friendly in the picture.”

As soon as she says it, she’s sorry, because that’s not how she wants to do this. She isn’t suspicious, or jealous, or anything like that; she just loves him, and she wants him not to be so worried. She wants to be careful with him.

Claude swallows heavily beside her, and Ryanne watches the movement of his throat. It’s quiet for a long time.

“Ryanne, I—” he starts, but cuts himself off before he goes any further. Abruptly, Ryanne regrets doing this in the car. She wishes she could meet eyes, reassure him with her words, her hands.

“Oh, Claude, I — maybe we should talk about this later,” she says, thinking of their bedroom in Ottawa, their big bed and soft sheets where everything feels smaller. Claude swallows again, nods; the rest of the drive passes in silence.

…

When they get back, Claude quietly turns off the car and goes to lug their big shared suitcase out of the back of the U-Haul. Everything else they’ll unpack tomorrow, but now it’s late and experience has taught them the value of having all the necessities in one place when they arrive. Ryanne lets the dog out into the backyard, grabs a water bottle, and trudges tiredly up the stairs to their bedroom.

The beds are made, thank god; the cleaners have been through and the linen smells of crisp, clean cotton. It’s easy to collapse down onto the duvet, luxuriate into the soft give of the mattress under her as she stretches out. Ryanne is drifting quietly in the warm light and the stillness, and she’s halfway to sleep by the time she realizes that while both dogs have come in from the yard and curled up by the headboard, Claude is nowhere to be found. She gives him a minute, stroking one hand idly through Charlie’s soft fur, but when the minute passes and Claude still hasn’t come up she leverages herself up with a groan.

Ryanne pads downstairs and finds him, sitting silently on their wide couch with his head in his hands. He doesn’t move when he hears her footsteps, and he doesn’t react when she puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, even though she knows. He takes one breath, then another; his back shifts under her hand.

“I love you so much, Ryanne. I’m— I’m really sorry.” he says, and that’s wrong. He hasn’t done anything, and he has nothing to be sorry for.

Carefully, Ryanne pulls his hands away from his face. They’re dry, calloused. She pulls him up, first from the couch and then up the stairs to their bedroom, and he yields easily. He won’t meet her eyes, but he goes where she puts him, until he’s stretched out on his back on his side of the bed, Ryanne laying carefully down beside him.

“Claude,” she says, when he’s there — close, and warm, and here where she can watch his face and hold his hand — “Tell me about Danny.”

Claude shudders, once, and does. He describes it all — his rookie crush, the joy of Danny’s undivided attention, the way playing with him and living with him sometimes felt like a dream, too good to be true. And then, the buyout: the creeping sense of inevitability, the resentment towards the front office, the moment it became official and the weird relief that came with knowing for sure that everything between them was over. By the end of it Claude’s hoarse, wrung out, a mute line of exhaustion besides her.

“It didn’t have to be over,” Ryanne says softly, “Just because he was playing somewhere else.”

Claude shrugs, helplessly. “I didn’t… think about, really. It was just— it was too big. It felt like it was over.”

“And then what happened? You just stopped talking?”

Claude nods, once. “It wasn’t like we never texted, or anything. It was— easier, I guess, to let him drift away. And I had you, and I loved you— love you, I love you — and it just..ended.”

“And then he came to practice?” Ryanne asks. She squeezes Claude’s hand, just once, where it’s tucked between them, and Claude grips back hard. Maybe in response, maybe just to know she’s right there with him. To know he can keep going.

“And then he came to practice,” he confirms, “and it felt just like before. Only this time I couldn’t convince myself it was a rookie crush, or hero worship, or whatever it was I convinced myself of before. This time I knew that it was— that it was Danny.

He’s saying it, and he’s gripping her hand still, but he’s closing his eyes, waiting for — something. Ryanne to shout, she guesses, or push him away, or recoil, or, or—

As if she would ever do that to Claude. As if she were even capable of it.

Instead, Ryanne fits herself closer up against him, pries her hand free to cradles his face softly with her fingertips, right at the curve of his jaw. She lets him take her weight, lets him feel the surety of her on top of him. His eyes are still closed, so she  kisses him once, softly, and then they’re open and he’s wrapping his arms securely around her waist, keeping her pressed against him and squeezing like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go.

“Claude,” she says, as he buries his face in her neck. “It’s okay. We're okay.”

She keeps stroking his jaw, feeling the texture of his beard and the nervous fluttering of his pulse. She’s pretty sure he’s crying.

They lay there for what feels like a long time, until the world takes on the surreal stillness of very late. Claude isn’t gripping her quite as tightly; she props herself up on her elbows so she can see his face. His eyes are red, his face flushed and splotchy.

“I’ll be right back,” Ryanne says, waiting until he nods, then she goes and gets a damp washcloth to clean him up. She smooths it carefully over his face, over the thin, vulnerable skin under his eyes, over the smooth lines of his eyebrows. Then she tucks them both in, feeling the pass of the sheets on her legs as she gets Claude situated and tucks herself solidly into the curve of his arm, head pillowed on his shoulder. She kisses him gently on the cheek, reaches over to shut off the light.

“Go to sleep, okay? It’s really late,” she whispers, feels him nod. “I love you. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

 ...

He’s gone when Ryanne wakes up the next morning, but that’s fine — when she checks the clock, it’s late morning, and she can hear him moving around downstairs. When she gets there, she finds him in the kitchen making omelettes.

The line between love breakfast and guilt breakfast is thin, for Claude. She takes the plate and kisses him on the cheek in thanks, then steps back to give him an appraising once-over.

He looks tired, but no longer defeated, nothing like how he was last night. It’s enough to give her the peace of mind to start eating. When they’re done, and Claude is loading the dishwasher, Ryanne says, “I think you should talk to Danny.”

The look Claude gives her is fairly betrayed, like he thought the talking was over— as if he was going to cry on their bed all night and Ryanne would just let it go. “You don’t have to, of course, but — Claude, he was obviously important to you. _Is_ important to you.”

“So, what, you’re just, just fine with all this? I tell you that I’m— I tell you all this, and it’s fine for you?”

Ryanne opens her mouth to answer, but stops herself. Tries to really give the question its due. She thinks about how upset Claude was last night, how upset he’s been for the past few weeks, over Danny and probably over trying not to let it show through on his face; she thinks about him, worried and guilty over feelings he couldn’t control, about the emotion in his voice when he talked about Danny, about the way he looked in the photo. And then she imagines Danny, here; Danny and Claude together, in this space that’s always been just for Ryanne and Claude. Would it hurt her, to have him there?

“You looked… you looked really happy, in the photo,” she says. You looked in love, she doesn’t say, because she doesn’t think that Claude is ready to hear it from her. “And it doesn’t— it’s not about us. You still… still love me, and that hasn’t changed. Right?”

She’s barely finished the sentence before Claude has folded her up into his arms. He’s not that big, not like other hockey players, but he’s always had a way of making her feel held. Safe.

“Of course, Ryanne, I— it was never about that, that was never the issue. I love you so much, I didn’t mean to— to let this get in the way, or make you think—” 

“I know, Claude,” she says, letting herself relax into him. “I’m not worried about that. I guess I just mean— you have me, you know? And I have you, and you make me so happy. I don’t see why you can’t… why you can’t maybe have that with Danny, too.”

Claude is quiet for a very long time. Then he says, just softly into her hair, “I don’t even know if he… thinks about me like that.”

Ryanne doesn’t know Danny like she knows Claude — like she knows Claude in love. But she thinks of the photo — Danny’s soft smile, his dark eyes — and thinks Claude doesn’t have much to worry about.

… 

It’s been an emotionally exhausting few weeks, and on top of that there’s all the everyday tasks of the off-season. They have to settle back in to their life in Ottawa, and Claude has to work out his training schedule, and she has to figure out which of their friends are going to be around and when they can see them in the narrow window of the summer. So a few weeks pass, and they don’t talk about it. She thinks that Claude might need some time to process, and it’s busy enough without having a five-hour heart to heart every night before bed.

Then one night, flushed and sleepy after some very mutually satisfying sex that only had to be interrupted once when Claude’s wrist starting acting up, Claude mentions, with calculated nonchalance, “I’m going to get dinner with Danny this weekend.”

Ryanne sits up from where she had been cuddling into Claude’s chest to punch him lightly on the shoulder. “What?! You’re just mentioning this now!?”

Claude rubs at his shoulder, feigning outrage. And, Ryanne notes, softening, not doing a particularly good job feigning calm.

“That’s good, Claude,” she says, lowering herself back down onto him, “I’m happy for you. How do you feel about it?”

“I think okay,” he says, stroking the shell of her ear lightly with one finger. “Kind of nervous, I guess. How do _you_ feel about?”

Ryanne looks up, peering at Claude’s face. He’s looking at her with a kind of intensity she’s not used to. Trying to make sure she’s okay.

“I think okay, too,” she says, tweaking his chin so he’ll stop looking so serious. “You’ll have to tell me how it goes. Are you going to a restaurant? Do you think you’ll come back here?”

Claude shrugs, rocking Ryanne’s whole upper body in the process. “Should I? Would you want him here?”

“I think so. I think it might be good,” she says, because she does. “He’s important to you. I’d like to get to know him.” 

…

Claude leaves around seven; she helps him pick out an outfit that doesn’t clash too badly with his hair, gives him a firm kiss and a swat on the ass as he leaves.

They get home earlier than she expected, so much so that she’s halfway through painting her toenails on the couch with the dogs cuddled up beside her when she hears the door. “Hello?” she calls, muting the television, and it’s Claude and Danny, but it’s not quite the picture she envisioned.

Danny looks— good, as good as he looked in the picture, but also tense and unhappy, arms crossed in front of him and mouth tight. Ryanne turns the TV off entirely.

“What’s going on?” she asks, shoo-ing the dogs away so there’s room on the couch. Claude sits, heavily, but Danny doesn’t.

“You tell me,” he says, terse and impatient, “Claude said you’d be better at explaining than him.”

“Okay,” she says, not liking the set of his shoulders or his tone at that, “My fiancé is in love with you, and I’m pretty sure you’re in love with him, too.”

Claude sucks in his breath, but Danny reels back like he’s been punched.

“I’m not— he isn’t… we didn’t—” he stammers, but Ryanne cuts him off with a raised hand. “Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll have some tea, and we’ll figure out what to do about it.”

He’s still looking at her aghast, she gets up and goes to make the tea, lets it steep properly instead of just dunking the bag in haphazardly like she normally does. When she returns they haven’t moved. She hands Claude his tea, puts the other mugs on the coffee table, and gestures for Danny to sit down on the couch next to Claude. He goes, looking wary.

“I guess dinner didn’t go well,” she says mildly, watching the profile of Danny’s face, the movement of his jaw as it clenches.

Danny lets out an aborted laugh. “What would ‘going well’ look like for you?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, “but I don’t think this is it.”

Danny just looks at her, almost disbelieving, but doesn’t say anything. Beside him, Claude looks tired; he scrubs a hand over his face, lets his head tip back against the couch cushions so he can gaze ruefully up to the ceiling.

“Okay,” she says slowly, after a long, stubborn silence. “I don’t know what happened at dinner, but I think you two should probably talk about it.”

“ _We_ should talk about it?” Danny asks, “You just told me you think Claude and I are— are what, having an affair, and you think we should talk about it?”

 _Honestly,_ Ryanne thinks, _Men._

“No,” she says, firmly. “I told you I think you’re in love. I think maybe you have been for a long time. And that’s what I think you should talk about.” Claude’s eyes are closed now, head still tipped back, and he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. Danny, though— Danny is looking at her with startling intensity, and if he still looks caught off-guard and helpless at least it’s no longer defensive.

“Look,” she says. “I love Claude more than I’ve ever loved anyone else. And I know that he loves me. I’m not worried, not about that. But if he feels about you the way he feels about me, then I don’t see why he has to choose.

If you aren’t interested, then that’s fine. You can leave and it can be just like it was the past five years. But I think you are interested, and yeah — I think you should talk about it.”

Danny sits back heavily, looking stunned. And Claude looks — Claude looks hopeful.

“It’s late, and I have to finish painting my nails, so I’m going upstairs,” Ryanne says. “Do whatever you need to do, honestly. You know what I think.” And with that, she gets her mug and her nail polish, kisses Claude firmly, and heads upstairs to their room. 

…

She actually does finish painting her toenails, arranged on the bathroom rug with one leg tucked close under her. She allows herself to get lost in the repetitive motion of it, the smooth glide of the polish, and she tries to decide how she’s feeling.

In the moment, it had been almost simple, to decide what to do. To lay all the cards on the table and to let Claude and Danny take it from there. And she still knows in her heart that it’s the right thing, that she can give this to Claude, this thing that he would never have dared ask for, that he didn’t even realize was possible, and she can still have him in every way that matters.

At the same time, there’s also the fact of what she’d doing, which the encounter with Danny has laid bare — encouraging her future husband to have an affair with a man he’s been in love with for almost a decade.

But no, she thinks to herself. It’s not an affair, with all the ugliness that the word implies. She’s seen how they look at each other, and she’s heard — from Claude at least — how they were together, and it’s not something ugly at all.

She caps the nail polish and gets ready for sleep, tucking herself into their bed. Downstairs is quiet, and she spares a minute to wonder what they’re doing, if they’re talking. Claude will tell her in the morning, she’s sure. 

…

Ryanne is a little wrong about that, only because she’s woken by Claude slipping under the comforter a few hours later.

“Wha—” she says blearily, but before she can wake up enough to articulate a question she finds herself crushed pleasantly against him. She can’t even get her arms loose to hug him back, so she just sinks into the embrace, lets her eyes drift shut in the dark of the room.

“It’s okay,” Claude whispers to her, kissing her once on the top of the head. Ryanne hums quietly. It feels really nice. “We talked, like you said, and I think— we’re going to try.”

“Good,” she says, not moving except to burrow her face further into him.

“Danny is going to text you, I think,” he goes on, still hushed. “He wants to talk to you more.” 

“Okay,” Ryanne mumbles. She’s happy for him, and for Danny, and to be wrapped up in Claude’s arms right now, but she also kind of wants to go back to sleep. “Talk more tomorrow, please.” 

The last thing she’s aware of before she falls asleep again is Claude laughing softly against her hair.

...

In the morning, Claude is still wrapped around her in bed, which would be unusual if not for the fact that he was up so late the night before. She extricates herself carefully and snaps her fingers so that the dogs will wedge themselves into the space she was occupying. Ryanne snags her phone from the bedside table and heads downstairs to start breakfast.

She’s chopping peppers when the screen lights up with an unknown number.

 _This is Danny Briere,_ it reads, which Ryanne could have guessed.

_Hi Danny. I’m glad you and Claude talked things through._

Three dots appear and just as quickly disappear. Ryanne watches this happen a few times before she takes pity on him.

_Claude cares about you a lot. I hope we can get to know each other better._

She chops a few more peppers and starts whisking the eggs when Danny responds: _Me too._

Which part he’s responding to, she isn’t sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

....

Over the next few weeks, things reach a kind of peace. She and Danny text a few times a day; usually she’ll send pictures of the dogs, or of Claude, or just a few words about whatever she’s up to at the moment. He does the same.

She and Claude go out a few times, get a nice dinner, come home and have the kind of slow, intense sex that’s hard to find time for during the season. He goes out with Danny, too, about as often, but he usually comes home right after and doesn’t bring Danny back. He seems happy to take it slow, which Ryanne respects, but she’s also surprised by how simple it all feels. She keeps waiting for a moment of insecurity, or jealousy, but it doesn’t come. Instead she sees Claude come home with tousled hair and swollen lips and feels nothing but smug glee, which he quickly addresses by giving her hickey the size of a dollar coin right under the hinge of her jaw. 

She takes a picture of that too, tries not to feel self-conscious as she’s making sure to get the shell of her ear and the blonde sweep of her hair in the frame.

 _Was he always this immature?,_ she captions it when she sends it to Danny.

 _Worse,_ he sends back. _You remember Canada Day._

So that’s okay then.

…

“Invite Danny to dinner,” she says to Claude while he’s installing the shelves in their living room. He can’t answer immediately because he has a bunch of nails held in his mouth, but he takes them out and carefully steps down from the stepstool when she speaks.

“Okay,” he says, “Why?”

She thinks about it for a moment, deciding how to articulate it. “I like him,” she decides. “And you guys should be able to spend time here, too.”

…

Danny arrives while Claude is on the deck grilling. Ryanne opens the door and gives him a hug, which he returns easily.

“Claude’s out back. We’re having salmon and potatoes and asparagus. Want any wine?”

Danny accepts so Ryanne pours him some white. She’s on her second glass, a pleasant sheen of contentedness overlaying with her fondness towards Claude and now towards Danny.

Glasses in hand, they join Claude on the deck, and Ryanne makes herself comfortable in the chair with the nicest cushion while Danny says hello. He hesitates for a moment and then kisses Claude softly, right at the corner of his mouth. He says something, too soft for her to hear, and whatever Claude says back makes them both laugh and look, in unison, at her. Warmth prickles down the back of her neck as Claude closes the grill cover and they join her at the table.

It’s a nice night — breezy and a little cool, the deck lights casting a pleasant glow over the table as they eat. It’s easy and intimate, familiar in a way it has no right to be but is anyway. 

 _We’re on the same page,_ Ryanne thinks to herself when they’re finished eating, just sitting and talking in their bubble of light. She has her bare feet propped up on Claude’s chair, and she’s pretty sure Danny’s knee is touching his on the other side of the table. They look like she feels, happy and at the same time like they can’t believe their luck.

The evening stretches on and she doesn’t realize how late it is until her yawn cuts Danny off mid-sentence.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, but Danny waves her off.

“It’s late, I should probably head out anyway,” he says, and starts to get up, but Ryanne and Claude both make a noise and he stills.

Danny is looking at Claude, but Claude is looking at her. His eyebrows are raised, but his body language is open, his face full of trust. Like he’s saying _Your call, babe. Your move._

“We have a guest room,” Ryanne says, and breaks eye contact with Claude to look up at Danny. “Two, actually. You don’t have to leave yet.”

Danny looks at her steadily for a few long moments. She hopes he can read what she’s feeling in her face, even if he doesn’t know her like he knows Claude. Maybe he can, or maybe he just takes her words at face value, but he sits back down.

“Okay,” he says, “Thanks.”

“Any time,” she says, and means it.

So they finish their conversation, and Danny helps them clean up, and then Claude takes him upstairs to show him the guest room and get him some clothes to sleep in. She lets the dogs out and then goes upstairs to where Claude is brushing his teeth in their bathroom.

She goes up behind him, twines her arms around his waist, presses her forehead to the spot right between his shoulder blades.

“This was really good,” she says, and he hums around his toothbrush. “You could sleep in the guest room. Or do other things in the guest room. You know, if you wanted to.”

She feels the way he stills, and he spits carefully into the sink before turning to take her shoulders in his hands.

“How do you do that?” he asks. “How are you just… okay, with all this? Isn’t it hard for you?”

She meets his gaze. He has toothpaste in his beard, and the look on his face gets her right in the heart.

“I don't know, Claude. I love you. I guess I don't think it's that hard.”

He keeps looking at her for a minute, and then apparently decides she’s telling the truth. Then he sets his hands firmly under her ass and sweeps her up and out into their bedroom, ignoring the way she’s laughing and clutching at his shoulders.

He presses her into the bed, kissing along her neck until she’s squirming, and then his smile fades and he sits up over her with unexpected seriousness. “I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he says. “I love you so much, and that would have been— would have been more than enough, but this, and everything you’ve done— I don’t even know how to express it.”

Ryanne sits up, one hand fisted in his shirt, and fits her mouth to his. She kisses him deeply, feels him relax into it, and then she flops back and kicks him lightly in the stomach.

“Go sleep with Danny,” she says, and when he starts laughing she pushes at him with her feet until he’s forced off the bed.

“Alright, alright,” he says, and ducks back in for one more kiss before he goes.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” he says as he leaves, “and I’ll make you pancakes.”

“You better,” she responds, and starfishes herself out on the covers. As long as she has the bed to herself she's going to make the most of it.

**Author's Note:**

> *Banging pots and pans* Claude's love language is acts of service!
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/callabang_)!


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